


The Catalyst

by Oakwyrm



Series: My City Now [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major Character Injury, Mother-Son Relationship, Second War with Voldemort, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting, Werewolf Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22881976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakwyrm/pseuds/Oakwyrm
Summary: Draco Malfoy was the pureblood scion of the Malfoy family. He was destined for greatness. He wasbetter. Superior in every way to those who would call themselves his peers.That changed.Eventually, he would, too.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Series: My City Now [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644718
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	The Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> Listen I have been obsessed with this theory since I first heard it.
> 
> Also, I've had this basically written for almost exactly a year now. I'm just anal about the chronological order of things.

The night between Tuesday and Wednesday, between the 30th and the 31st of July, 1996. The date would be seared into Draco Malfoy’s memory forever. It was a cruel coincidence, he would later think, that the full moon fell just then, during the night going from Longbottom’s birthday to Potter’s. Perhaps that was why it happened then and not on his first full moon back from Hogwarts. A spike of anger, the date an irritating reminder for the Dark Lord of his failure fifteen years ago. A reminder he had yet to punish Lucius appropriately for his.

These were all things Draco would consider at a later date. When the world had calmed and he had changed so much his current self would be horrified by the mere thought of it. On the night itself, Draco didn’t think much at all.

An unfortunate side-effect of being a werewolf during the full moon, even if it was your first. Especially if it was your first. His memories of the night remained in his mind, somewhat muddled but still there. It was a frightening thing, to think back and remember most of what the wolf had done. To remember things, but slightly to the left. Distant, somehow. To feel, now that he had his mind and body back, the extent to which he lost control. How well and truly his body had not been _his_ anymore. He remembered the scent of humans just beyond the door, remembered frustration at failing to get through it. He remembered fur standing on end, an unfamiliar claustrophobia setting in. He remembered turning claws and teeth on himself in a futile effort to rid himself of the feeling. For something to do when the humans beyond the door were so firmly out of reach. He remembered rage.

He felt sick.

The coolness of the sheets around him helped a little. It prevented his mind from descending too deeply into a fog, soothed some of the dull, bone-deep pain left behind by the transformation. Still, he felt sick. He was certain if he tried to eat he wouldn’t be able to keep it down.

The bite on his arm throbbed painfully, an unnecessary reminder that this was his life now. The wounds he had inflicted on himself had already closed, though they had left behind scars he knew would never fade. The bite, though, that would stick around for a bit. Draco was attentive in class, he knew what to expect, as much as anyone could.

Magic would be useless on the bite, though it would heal faster than it would have if he were still-

His thoughts screeched to an immediate halt, a wave of nausea so powerful washing over him that he has to roll over in his bed, throwing up what little remained of last night’s supper onto the cold stone floor below him.

“Draco?” He flinched at the sudden light that streamed into his room from the corridor. Narcissa took notice of this and quickly slipped into his room, shutting the door as silently as possible behind her. She cast a quick cleaning charm on the floor as she approached. “How are you feeling?” she asked as she sat down beside him. He had never heard her voice so unsure. She sounded as near to terrified as he had ever heard her.

He didn’t answer, a sharp lurch behind his heart made him certain if he tried he would not be able to. A gentle hand settled on his head, combing sweat-damp hair out of his face in a gesture of comfort so achingly familiar, yet belonging in the far gone past. A gesture that belonged to his childhood self.

 _“My clever little dragon,”_ she whispered, slipping into French. Her tone carrying her grief clearly though he could tell she was trying to hide it. _“I am so, so sorry.”_ Her fingers continued to comb through his hair. The familiar comfort of it combined with the words unwound his tightly held control. His breath shook with suppressed sobs, hot tears stinging his eyes and rolling down his face.

Narcissa pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes shining with tears that she refused to let fall just yet. Carefully she pulled her son into her arms as he cried like she had not seen him cry since he was a child. He pressed his face into her shoulder, his frame shaking, his muffled sobs feeling unnaturally loud in the silent room. She pressed a kiss into the side of his head, struck suddenly by the fact that she had not held him like this for several years.

A string of whispered apologies fell from her lips, though the words felt utterly inadequate to express her grief at her failure to protect him. She should have insisted he stay away. She should have talked Lucius into sending him off to any distant relative in France who might take him. This was her baby, and she had failed him. Her only child, her son, thrown to Fenrir Greyback like a master would throw his dog a scrap from the table.

The thought made her see red. An ice-cold fury settling in her veins beside her grief as she held her shaking son. Nearly a man, now, and yet still her child. She wanted to say he would be safe, give him every assurance that she would never let any harm befall him again, but she knew better than that. It was an impossible promise to make, so she just held him as he cried himself out.

* * *

Eventually, he quieted, exhaustion taking hold of him and dragging him down into a deep sleep. Narcissa let him down gently and pulled the covers over him again, pausing briefly on her way out to check the bandage on his arm. It would need to be changed soon, she thought, but it could wait a little longer.

As quietly as she had entered she slipped back out again, a carefully schooled expression of calm disinterestedness slipping into place on her face. Her steps, brisk but not hurried, took her along the familiar route to her husband’s study. She knew he would be there. He had not left it since last night.

She didn’t bother knocking as she yanked the door open and walked in, summoning to herself all of the pride and dignity she possessed. She was Narcissa Black. He would listen, and he would do so without complaint.

Lucius looked up as the door clicked shut behind her. Deep circles under his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. She couldn’t drag up even the least bit of sympathy for him. Perhaps her anger was misdirected, but he was the only person she could direct it as without fear for her life.

“How is he?” Lucius asked, his voice hoarse. She sent him an icy glare.

“How do you think?” she asked, her tone terrifying in its calmness. He sighed.

“Narcissa,” he began, exhaustion seeping into his voice.

“Don’t,” she said, her tone biting. He fell silent, leaning his forehead against his hands and waiting for her to continue. “He can’t keep food down. He’s burning up and in more pain than either of us can probably imagine. He’s going to be in pain for the rest of his life. Our _son_! Was it not enough for the Dark Lord to take over your ancestral home, make you a servant in your own house? What right did he have to demand _my son_ suffer for his father’s incompetence?” Her chest heaved as she came to the end of her tirade, spoken in furious whispers for fear of someone overhearing her.

“What would you have had me do?” Lucius snapped.

“I would have had you keep Draco away from all of this!” she said, eyes flashing dangerously. “We should have sent him away, to France or maybe the Blackburns. I would have sent him to the Lovegoods or, Merlin, _Andromeda_ if she would keep him safe! I would have begged even the _Weasleys_ to take him if all else failed!”

Lucius drew a sharp breath through his teeth. “Are you hearing yourself?” he asked.

“With perfect clarity,” she said, a steely calm settling back over her. “We should have sent him somewhere safe while we still could. The Dark Lord has quite neatly fixed to keep your greatest vulnerability within his reach.”

“You’re worried he’s going to do something further.” Lucius sagged in his seat, plainly he had not considered the idea. Narcissa felt a chill crawl up her spine at the idea of further harm coming to her child but kept her composure.

“This is hardly the worst thing he could have done. I do not know, exactly, what you have done to anger him, but I do not think he considers the debt repaid yet.” Her mouth felt uncomfortably dry as she spoke, anxious heartbeat drumming in her chest.

“What worse thing can you possibly imagine?” Lucius stood now, a different kind of fury colouring his features. “My line is irreparably damaged, my family name ruined, the Malfoy family’s blood-status is permanently marred by this! It would have been less cruel of him to just-” He stopped short, his wife’s wand levelled at his chest. A cold fury was in her eyes and her hands did not shake.

“Do not finish that sentence.” Narcissa’s voice was clipped, her tone deadly serious. “Draco is alive. Whatever else he may be, he is alive. That is enough for me. Let it be enough for you.” Her tone was not one of request.

Lucius’ answering silence was deafening to her ears. She slipped her wand back into her robes and drew herself up, a practised cloak of indifference falling over her horror and grief. She looked at Lucius then and she did not recognize the man she had married. She found had not recognized him for many years.

“Narcissa, wait-” Lucius said, but her hand was already on the doorknob.

“Who _are_ you?” She managed to force the words out, her voice a twisted hiss of rage. To look at her then one could see her resemblance to both of her sisters more clearly than ever. Bellatrix’s raw fury and Andromeda’s fierce protectiveness shone in her every feature and Lucius took an involuntary step back. Her face pulled into a familiar sneer before she schooled it back to a regal calm. She did not look at him as she swept out of his office and slammed the door behind her.

* * *

Draco woke to a pounding headache and sheets that clung to him, so drenched were they in his sweat. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it should be disgusting to him, that he should be scrambling out of bed as fast as possible, but he couldn’t even make himself move.

Everything hurt. Every muscle, every bone in his body, even his eyes hurt, and he was starving. He didn’t think he’d ever been so hungry. He opened his eyes, prepared to shut them again quickly if any light was filtering into his room from anywhere, but he found it pleasantly dim. A small sigh of relief escaped him.

At the sound, a figure resting on the chaise lounge in the corner stirred.

“Draco, _you’re awake.”_ Narcissa stood quickly, gliding to his side with as much of her usual elegance as she could. _“Hold on, I’ll help you sit.”_ Carefully she shifted him to prop several more pillows behind him until he was sitting up, leaning back against a much cooler surface.

 _“Water.”_ His voice came out thin and raspy. She poured him a glass and helped him swallow enough of it to ease the burning dryness in his mouth and throat. As she moved to set the glass back on his bedside table she paused, one hand moving to settle gently on his cheek, her eyes searching his face for something.

 _“No matter what,”_ she said, her voice a little unsteady. _“I will always love you. I hope I’ve made that clear enough, but in case I never did I’m saying it now.”_

“Mama _._ ” His voice held a note of protest, though whether it was to her suggestion that she might have neglected to show him her support or the usual protestations of an embarrassed teenager, neither of them could say. Neither of them remarked on the use of the less formal word, either.

 _“Can you eat?”_ she asked, drawing away to set the glass on the table.

 _“Yes, I think,”_ he said, his brow furrowing slightly as he watched her stumble in her movements. _“Are you alright?”_

She paused, looking back up at him, a puzzled frown on her face. _“Yes, why do you ask?”_

Draco hesitated. _“It looks like you’re having trouble seeing,”_ he said after a moment. Her face fell, but the brief flicker of sorrow was soon replaced by a wavering smile.

 _“Your eyesight must be better in the dark, now,”_ she said. _“I can barely see you from here.”_

Draco felt like a bucket of ice-water had been dumped over his person. The only response he could muster was a weak “Ah” of recognition as his eyes snapped back to the bandage on his arm. A fresh wave of nausea rose in him, effectively killing his appetite, but he said nothing of it as his mother stood and left the room to fetch him something to eat.

He’d have to eat if he wanted to stay alive, after all.

He paused.

Did he want that?

The thought was brief, entering his mind and exiting just as quickly, but leaving a blazing trail of destruction in its wake despite how quickly it had passed. It unsettled him to his core, scared him, even. His path in life, his role in society, his entire future seemed to evaporate before him as he stared down at the bandage on his arm, hiding a wound that would heal but mark him forever as inferior. As feared and hated. An outsider. He was worse than a muggle in the eyes of wizarding society at large.

 _They_ , at least, were human.

That admission made his stomach turn again and he had to look away.

His thoughts were prevented from spiralling further by Narcissa’s return with a tray of light, easily digestible food. He mumbled his thanks as she set it down beside him and returned to the chair at his bedside that she had vacated. He studied the tray with mildly disgusted disinterest but picked up the tea regardless.

 _“_ _Will it always be like this?”_ he asked after a moment of heavy silence. Narcissa sighed.

 _“_ _I don’t know,”_ she said. _“But I have already sent an owl to Severus, next month you’ll have the potion.”_

Draco felt a chill run down his spine at the knowledge that someone outside the house knew. Had been informed of his condition. The Death Eaters passing in and out of Malfoy Manor would all soon know, too. There was nothing he could do to change that. Narcissa noticed his change in demeanour and reached out to gently take his hand.

 _“_ _I don’t like it either, but he’s the best option we have,”_ she said gently. _“He’s_ _your guardian, and he’s experienced in making it, and he can help you while you’re at school. He will not betray you. No one else has to know, I promise.”_

Draco grimaced. _“What about the regist_ _er_ _?”_ he asked.

 _“_ _We’ll figure something out,”_ she assured him. She could tell from the way his shoulders slumped and he turned away that he did not believe her.

Only when he had finished his light dinner and settled back down against his pillows did he manage to find his voice for the question that had been prodding cruelly at the back of his mind since he woke.

“Where’s father?” he asked, switching back to English. He hated how small his voice sounded. How he must look like a child, asking for their parents after waking from a nightmare. Narcissa winced and, for the first time that evening, couldn’t meet his eyes.

“He’s taking this rather hard,” she said delicately. “He needs some more time.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and did not answer her.

* * *

It took two weeks. Snape had come and gone, looking in just to see for himself that Narcissa’s report was true, and leaving again with the promise to deliver Draco the Wolfsbane Potion in time for the next first quarter. Draco had kept himself to his room, diving into the summer homework with more fervour than usual.

Narcissa had taken to allowing him his meals in his room, sparing him from having to show his face around the house before he was ready. He had recovered completely from the full moon, feeling almost his old self again, only his enhanced senses and the scars to tell him that it was real. He half suspected he would like the new moon best for the rest of his life if its presence in the night sky continued to bring the odd relief currently swirling in his chest.

A swift familiar knock on his door heralded Lucius’ arrival and before Draco could even turn from his work the door had already opened and shut, the gentle swish of robes the only hint that anyone had stepped in.

He turned, slowly, to stare at his father, half expecting someone else to be standing there despite the knock that he’d been able to differentiate from anyone else’s since childhood.

“Father,” he said, nodding his head in recognition of the man before turning back to his work.

“Draco.” Lucius sounded almost like he hadn’t actually expected to find Draco there, in the room he had not vacated since the end of July. _“_ _How are you?”_ The liquid sound of French was almost startling to Draco's ears. It had been so long since his father spoke it with him.

 _“I am well, thank you, f_ _ather,”_ he answered mechanically, the scratch of his quill continuing uninterrupted save for when he needed to double-check the textbook he was working off of.

 _“_ _Your mother-”_ Lucius paused to clear his throat. _“Your mother has made it clear to me I_ _ha_ _ve made a mistake to avoid you as I have.”_ The scratching of the quill stopped abruptly as Draco turned to stare at him. _“_ _Now, how are you? And don’t lie to me.”_

 _“I’m better than I was, which you would know if you’d come to see me at all for the past two weeks. I’m almost done with my summer homework, Severus agreed to brew the Wolfsbane Potion for me, and mother seems to have made it her personal mission to see to it I don’t starve myself.”_ Despite its relative tameness, it was probably the most aggressive, critical thing he’d ever said to his father in his life.

“Yes, I’d heard about Severus.” Lucius sighed, switching back to English. “We owe him a great debt of gratitude now, but it can’t be helped.” He sounded less than pleased about the idea. Draco turned back towards the essay he’d been working on.

“You’d have disowned me, wouldn’t you?” he asked, surprising even himself with how calm he sounded about the possibility. _“_ If mother hadn’t been there to stop you?”

“No.” Lucius’ tone was firm, the kind that left no room for questioning him. “You are my son and heir. Nothing you could have done would have prevented what happened, the blame is entirely mine. Doubtless, my own late father would have thrown me out without a second thought in similar circumstances, but in this way, at least, I am not him.”

It wasn’t an apology, exactly. Forgiveness was never asked for, so it could neither be refused nor granted, but it was the closest thing to it Draco could hope to get. He had never before heard his father take the blame upon himself, admit something was his fault, even though in this case Draco thought he should at least share the blame with the Dark Lord and possibly Greyback. Still, he knew his father would never do that, so he kept that opinion to himself.

* * *

Draco had never before actively regretted his studious nature. He stared down at the heavy tome in front of him, only a few pages in, already feeling what little hope he had left leak out of him bit by bit. He’d known about the Werewolf Register, of course. Most people knew about that.

He’d known about the laws preventing werewolves from working, too. When they had first been set in place he’d actually been happy about it. The memory made him feel actively sick now, and he honestly didn’t know if he’d be ever able to look at Snape without this new, unfamiliar anger boiling to the surface again.

He’d been less well-informed about everything else.

The words seemed to jump out at him. Every time he thought he’d seen a way through, another would be there to bar his way. He’d have to announce himself to the Registry Office, he’d never be allowed to work as a Healer, even if the law barring him from all work was repealed. He couldn’t hold public office, his father held too much land, he’d have to sell a sizeable portion of it once he inherited just to keep the house. If he _wasn’t_ allowed to keep the house any landlord or anyone he tried to buy a house from could refuse him on grounds of his lycanthropy.

Any eventual children he had would be monitored, for their safety and the safety of the public the law claimed. He was barely allowed to get married. The Malfoy family name would die with him.

 _Get married, have children,_ _take care of your ancestral home_ _._

It was a restrictive future, and in truth one he’d always chafed against, yet suddenly he needed it more than he needed air to breathe or water to drink. He’d always assumed so many werewolves aligned themselves with the Dark Lord, even if it was in silently doing nothing because they agreed with him. Staring down at the dusty tome, at the laws that abhorred his very existence, he suddenly wasn’t so sure. He’d heard with half an ear what the Dark Lord promised them, but he’d never paid enough attention to it because it had never pertained to him.

Even if a werewolf wanted to oppose the Dark Lord, could they? Draco had only ever heard of one who did, and Lupin was comparatively lucky. He had friends in high places, people with money and influence behind him to vouch for and protect him.

He didn’t know it then, but later in life he would look back on that day. He would remember himself, curled up in a corner of the library at Malfoy Manor, with a heavy book in his lap, watching the very last hope for his future slip through his fingers. He would look back and see the first seed of doubt planted.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, Snape is here referred to as Draco's guardian rather than his godfather because the Malfoys are not Christian.
> 
> Also, they've got French roots from like... So many sides. Draco in particular I mean we've got the Blacks and the Rosiers on his mother's side and of course the Malfoys I mean it's almost riddiculous.


End file.
